


The Heisenberg Principle

by gdgdbaby, LittleMousling



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, First Time, M/M, No explicit consent but they're all into it, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 18:45:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13747044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/pseuds/gdgdbaby, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMousling/pseuds/LittleMousling
Summary: Tommy's been working hard to not imagine what Jon and Lovett's new romance is like behind closed doors. It doesn't help when they bring it into his hotel room.





	The Heisenberg Principle

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to all the cheerleaders and brainstormers who helped us kick this off!

Tommy wasn't in charge of booking the hotel rooms for this leg of the tour. He's not sure who was—Chris, presumably, but Tommy would have expected Chris to put the lovebirds in one room. Instead, he's rooming with Jon, and Lovett's on a whole separate floor of the hotel. 

Maybe Chris wants to make sure Jon and Lovett actually sleep. _There's_ an image Tommy doesn't need in his head in a strange city—the two of them so all over each other they roll up at breakfast with dark circles, maybe some visible bruising and scratches. Maybe beard burn. 

Tommy's not going to think about any of that, because he's a good friend and not a creep. He's always been good at pushing down inappropriate thoughts—he's done it about Jon and about Lovett, over the years. But both of them together turns out to be harder to keep his mind away from. They're not even big on PDA; at the office, they're strictly the same as they ever were, and even when it's just the three of them, Tommy rarely sees more than knowing looks and a cheek kiss or two.

Not that he's watching them for more. Obviously. Because he's not a creep. 

Jon's staying up with Lovett and the team to work on Lovett or Leave It games planning. Tommy wants to be fresh in the morning, so he excuses himself and tucks into bed with his headphones in, listening to Headspace. It's not putting him to sleep fast, but he's used to that. He can wait.

He's almost asleep by the time he hears Jon come in, so he doesn't find the energy to say hello or even grunt it. He'll see Jon in the morning, anyway. 

Jon's trying to be quiet, with the inevitable result that he's bruisingly loud. He swears under his breath every time something he's doing makes noise, rummaging through his suitcase or sliding into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Tommy would smile, but he's too close to dozing off to find the energy even for that. He enjoys it inside his head, instead.

Jon settles into the other bed, finally, and then has to get back up for what Tommy's betting is his phone or his charger. Jon's predictable, more often than not, and Tommy's known him a long time. He settles back in and starts tapping at his phone. It's barely audible, but Tommy's half-awake again now, muscles relaxed but brain back online. Oh, well. His app's gone quiet, he realizes; he hadn't noticed when the sound ended. Before Jon came in, he supposes. 

Just as Tommy's starting to calm back down towards sleep, Jon abruptly gets out of bed, padding across the room, and opens the door. "This is stupid," Tommy hears him hiss, and there's a low laugh—Lovett. 

Tommy's about to give up on sleep—they obviously have—and ask what the plan is for the evening when he hears the soft, unmistakable sounds of kissing. 

Just the sound is more than they've done around him, and it makes Tommy pause. If they want a little bit of privacy—well, they should have gone to Lovett's room, but fine. He can play dead for a minute while they say goodnight.

The kissing stops. Tommy waits on the sound of the door, of Jon putting himself back to bed.

Instead, he hears … two of them, crossing the room, climbing into the other bed. Kissing again. What the fuck?

There's a noise that Tommy's brain can't interpret as anything other than a moan, and then a soft giggle, and Lovett saying, "Shut up, he'll wake up." 

Tommy stops breathing. Are they—what exactly are they—

"Keep me quiet, then," Jon whispers, and then there's a rustle of fabric, and something hitting the floor that Tommy is almost, almost certain is a shirt. 

Without question, the only correct ethical path at this moment is to sit up and tell them he's still awake, before anything goes further and before anyone's privacy is invaded.

He slits his eyes open, instead, trying to see them. 

It's dark in the hotel room; the only light is streetlamp shine coming in through the small part in the blackout curtains. He can make them out, Lovett reclined against the pillows, Jon shirtless and kneeling at the foot of the bed, peeling Lovett's sweats off. He can see, more and more as his eyes adjust, the way Lovett's watching Jon, the way Jon's crawling back up to— _Christ_ —kiss Lovett's stomach, and then—

Tommy absolutely should not be watching this. He turns his head, as carefully and slowly as he can, until he has a better view. 

Lovett's not so quiet now—actually, he's getting loud enough that Tommy can't believe he thinks Tommy's sure to sleep through it. Lovett used to live with him; he _knows_ what a light sleeper Tommy is. And the sounds are impossible to mistake, either; they're responsive and sexy and Tommy hopes, desperately, that between the weight of the comforter and the dim light, his growing erection won't be visible if either of them turn to look at his bed.

For better or worse, Jon's head is mostly obscured by Lovett's knee, and the slope of his thigh, which are both in the way of Tommy's line of sight. Lovett's Lovett, though, reactively vocal in every way. Why wouldn't he be exactly the same in bed, unguarded and aroused? Jon does something that makes Lovett whine, makes his shoulders ripple, and Tommy's dick twitches against his sweaty palm. Imagination is Tommy's worst enemy right now, because not seeing means his mind is going at a mile a minute thinking about what Jon's pretty pink mouth might look like wrapped around the tip of Lovett's cock, slowly sinking down, taking him deeper.

He wants to know, _needs_ to know, how good Jon is at it. Lovett sounds appreciative, but is he—does he go down on Lovett all the time? Does he practice? Tommy's sure, completely sure, that Lovett's the first guy in Jon's life. Does it come to him easy? Tommy doesn't know if it would come to _him_ easy, if he tried. Not that he—not that—

Christ, it's an image, though. Being the one who makes Lovett sound like that, choking off those moans and "fuck, yes" whispers. Or Jon—making Jon grunt the way he does when he gets massages, when he goes running with Tommy.

The leg obscuring Jon's head stretches out with a stutter, goes flat against the bed, and—Tommy still can't see enough in the low light, but he _can_ see Lovett lift half off the bed, torso curling as his hands cradle Jon's face, a desperate sound wrung out of him.

Tommy squeezes his hand tight around his own dick, hard enough to hurt, and keeps the rest of his body carefully still, not even breathing for fear of making a noise, breaking through the wispy haze of—whatever the fuck this is. Tommy's palms itch, his skin is too hot, his ears are ringing; he feels like he's balancing on the edge of a knife, caught in some sweetly frustrating dream where he can only look and look and look and never touch. 

He _has_ to touch himself, _has_ to, or he'll burn up from the inside. He waits until Jon is crawling back up, kissing Lovett, the two of them murmuring just too low for Tommy to hear anything but the emotion in it. That ought to help him cool his ardor, shouldn't it?—that they're being romantic, and sweet, and he's out in the cold. It doesn't, though. It makes it more intense, the idea of them overwhelmed by love as much as lust.

He wraps his hand around his cock fully, trying to stroke slowly and quietly under the comforter. If one of them turned to look, he'd be caught in an instant.

They don't look, though, too wrapped up in each other, and maybe that's a blessing now—being able to just watch them with their heads bent together, like it's just another day at the office, Lovett yelling, "No groping, you cad," and laughing when Jon hovers too close in the kitchen or bumps up behind him at his desk.

Tommy's not as vocal as Lovett is during sex—and what a thing, to know that about him now, to know it for sure because he's seen it, heard it, Jesus—so when he spills all over his knuckles inside his underwear, it's not hard to disguise his shifting as rolling over in bed. There's a brief moment where all movement on the other side of the room freezes, and Tommy's heartbeat pounds in his throat, but then he hears: "Think he just—" and "Yeah, we're okay," and Tommy can unclench his stomach, finally breathe again.

***

Tommy doesn't remember falling asleep, but he wakes up stuck unpleasantly to his briefs, so last night was either a very vivid dream or actually happened. When he sits up, Lovett and Jon are passed out in the next bed, which pretty strongly vitiates towards "actually happened."

He gets himself into the shower, briefs and all, because it's the easiest way to unstick himself without too much pube-yanking pain; he only realizes after he peels the wet briefs off that he's not sure how to explain why he has soaked underwear drip-drying in here. Christ. Maybe no one will say anything, since they presumably think they have to explain why Tommy woke up with two roommates instead of one.

The rest of the day is distracting enough that Tommy can, mostly, not focus on last night. He doesn't get much downtime to watch the way Jon and Lovett smile, and lean into each other, and translate that into how they are in bed. Between the interviews they've booked, and ad recording, and then the live show, there just isn't time for Tommy to be a creep. Which is almost the same as controlling his thoughts, really. Almost the same as not inappropriately fantasizing about his happy, coupled coworkers and best friends. Almost.

They go out for drinks at some bar close to the hotel with the other folks on tour with them after the show, Tanya and Chris and Rich. Tommy nurses a gin and tonic for as long as he can, and then he makes his excuses, talks about wanting to turn in early. Jon looks at him as he edges out of their booth, eyebrows slanted with concern. "You aren't coming down with anything, are you?"

Tommy shakes his head. It's futile to hope he isn't blushing, but he does hope that it's dark enough in here that no one can tell. "Just tired," he says, managing not to stumble over either word. Jon takes it.

Across the street, the ride up the elevator is quiet, and Tommy gets ready for bed on autopilot: brushes his teeth, splashes water in his face, plucks his dry underwear off the edge of the tub and stows it away in his suitcase. It's hard to get comfortable underneath the sheets, and Tommy can't tell if it's because he isn't actually tired or if he's just reliving last night in his mind, every soft noise and shifting of fabric, Jon and Jon blanketed in moonlight. Fuck. It's probably both.

He doesn't jerk off. It's almost entirely because Jon could be back any minute and that's rude roommate behavior, and only five percent because he's hoping for a second show.

Maybe ten percent.

He feels a little like a monster, but in that way where he's too turned on to care, like watching sketchy porn. He'll care later; he'll feel guilt and regret later. Right now he's just rolling onto his stomach in case—in case maybe—God. Maybe there's some guilt now, actually, but he wants to see so much more than he got last night. He can't even remember Jon getting off, doesn't know what they did.

He wonders if they fuck. He knows Lovett likes it, has heard enough late-night ribald jokes from him over the years, but maybe Jon is nervous about it. Or maybe he isn't at all—maybe he's a monster about it, maybe he drives the headboard into the wall fucking Lovett. Maybe he makes Lovett scream.

The images just keep coming, and he's running out of good reasons not to jerk off quickly before Jon gets back. He's about to flip over and start when he hears the door handle opening and Lovett's voice, low, saying, "Check if he's asleep."

Tommy shuts his eyes just in time, manages to get his breathing under control enough that Jon either doesn't notice, or—doesn't care, which almost makes Tommy slip. He exhales, slow and easy, and counts back from ten.

"Yeah, he's out," Jon says finally, moving away, and then: "You made me do all the work yesterday, you know."

There's gentle creaking from the other bed, and when Tommy cracks his eyes open again, Jon is kicking his pants and underwear off, bending over to peel his socks down. Tommy grits his teeth, eyes glued to the firm curve of his ass. "You love it," Lovett accuses, ensconced against the headboard already, but he's grinning as he sets his glasses on the bedside table. "You love my dick," he says, a little less firm, and Jon climbs onto the bed, leans in to kiss him.

"Yeah," he hears Jon mumble, and then they're grinding against each other, excruciatingly slow, Jon's body an undulating wave over Lovett's. Lovett brings his hand up to Jon's face, scratches behind his neck before sliding it down the arch of his spine, toward the small of his back, pausing for a moment to grope Jon a little, before—

Tommy can't swallow around the tiny gasp that wheezes past his lips when Lovett's fingers dip between Jon's cheeks, rubbing in a way that seems unmistakeable. Tommy hadn't really considered that maybe Lovett was the one who fucked Jon—that maybe he showed Jon how it felt best by demonstrating on him, that Jon liked working for it, liked sitting in Lovett's lap and filling himself up—but now all his other thoughts feel arrested, mind opened up, suddenly, to an entire tapestry of previously unexplored ideas.

He can see them easily this time—he doesn't notice for a moment, caught up in watching and listening, and then he realizes they've turned a lamp on. Jesus, they're taking risks. But he is, too. They could see his eyes in this light, easy. They could see him rubbing against the bed, if he dared to move his hips.

They literally have a whole other empty hotel room they could be doing this in, but far be it from Tommy to point that out, when he gets to watch Lovett pulling Jon in to kiss him, watch Jon shifting back onto Lovett's fingers. Tommy tries to keep his eyes slitted mostly shut, but where they are on the bed, he has to be able to look up to really see them.

They're not looking at him, anyway. They're absorbed in each other. "We can't—here," Jon says, soft against Lovett's jaw. "We'd wake him up for sure."

"Mm, the way you beg for it, sure," Lovett says, and the idea of Jon _begging_ to be fucked sends a jolt down Tommy's spine. He almost, almost, jerks against the bed. He has to keep himself under better control.

Jon makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, and Lovett pulls him back by the hair, eyes darting back and forth to study Jon's face.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Lovett says, voice sharp with intent, enunciating crisply, every syllable making Tommy's dick twitch, trapped in between his stomach and the bed. Lovett does something with the hand behind Jon and Jon gasps, long and low. "You'd love it if he watched—what if he woke up right now and saw you like this, desperate for it? What do you think he would do?"

Tommy bites around the pillowcase beneath his head to keep from making another noise, ears burning. His entire head feels fuzzy, like he might be hallucinating all of this, but Jon shudders, rocks forward then back, like he isn't sure if he wants relief against his dick or Lovett's fingers sliding deeper inside him, and Tommy thinks, _oh_ and _yes_ and _keep doing that_.

He can't, can't, can't rock his hips against the bed; they'll hear him, they're alert now, but he can see the press of Jon's cock against his belly, the way he's wet at the tip just from this. He can see how much Jon _wants_ it, and his hips jerk forward before he can stop them.

Jon casts a shaky look in Tommy's direction, and—Tommy squeezes his eyes shut automatically, even though he knows even as he does it that it's too late, fuck, Jon saw him looking, the lamp on the nightstand revealing everything. He lets go of the pillow he's biting down on, like that's somehow going to help this situation, and grinds his teeth against the sick lurch in his stomach.

"Oh, shit," Jon says, barely audible, and then, with a rustle of sheets and bodies and what Tommy supposes are Jon's pants, "Tommy, I'm _so_ sorry, um, we'll—Jesus Christ—we'll go downstairs—"

Tommy's heart sounds louder in his ears than anything Jon is saying. He can't bring himself to open his eyes. It's only when Lovett says, "Just—carry your fucking shoes, Jon," that Tommy finds himself saying, voice scratched out of him like a creaking door, "You can stay here."

It's muffled; he has to say it again, louder, before they stop their fussing and anxious whispers. At that point, he's pretty all-in, he supposes. It's pretty much too late not to just—

He rolls over, sheets dislodging until he's half bare in the light, the bedding caught over his unmistakable erection. He opens his eyes to see them watching him, gazes raking down his body. "You, um." He stops, coughs. "Don't let me interrupt, you were, um, it was—" He scrambles for a word, and sees Jon lick his lips, face smoothing out a little. "Hot."

Lovett's expression flickers, and then he looks—unbearably smug, which somehow makes Tommy's heart calm down, just a tad. He recognizes that face. Lovett looks like the cat that caught the canary, even though his hair is mussed beyond belief, his neckline askew, sweatpants tented out at the crotch.

"I _told_ you," he says, jabbing a hand in Jon's chest, and Jon rocks back on his heels, sucking in a quick breath. Tommy's face is going to fall off, it's burning up so much, but he holds Jon's gaze as steady as he can, and then reaches down, slow and deliberate, to palm himself through his boxers.

"Holy shit," Jon says, faint and raspy. He lets Lovett herd him onto the bed again, on his back this time, and Tommy scooches up so that his shoulders bump against the headboard, his head turned fully toward Jon's side of the room.

Part of him is still working through his own disbelief that this is actually happening, but that's quickly being swallowed by the roaring wave of arousal crashing through his head as Lovett clambers in Jon's lap and starts sucking an aggressive hickey into his neck.

"Lovett," Jon says, throaty— _needy_ —and Lovett murmurs against his throat, says, "I know, I know," helps Jon yank his pants back off again.

"Do you—fuck, can I ask questions, can—should I shut up," Tommy says, his head swimming with everything he wants to _know_ , everything he wants to see and hear and—he has to lay his hand on his thigh for a moment, sweat-damp against his skin.

"Shoot," Lovett says, still focused on stripping Jon. Jon is looking between them, eyes dark.

"You were gonna—when I interrupted, was Jon going to ride you? I want to see that, you should—let me see that."

Jon sucks in a breath, says, "Jesus, Tommy," but Lovett's already climbing off of him to yank Jon's briefs the rest of the way off, saying, "Man's got a point, Favreau. You don't want to disappoint our audience, do you?" He shakes the corner of the comforter and then reaches for something in the folds of it—lube, Tommy realizes, that they must have dropped in their attempt to flee.

"No," Jon says, still uncertain, and then Lovett snaps his fingers and presses the bottle into Jon's slack grip.

"You know what to do," he says, and it takes Tommy's clouded brain a couple of seconds to catch up, to get it, what Lovett's asking of him. Lovett turns toward Tommy, mouth rising into a smirk, and says, conversationally, "He's gotten good at prepping himself," like he could be commenting on the weather, or the color of the drapes.

"Good teacher?" Tommy says, voice cracking a little, and Lovett preens. Jon fumbles with the cap of the lube and squeezes some out onto his fingers, gets them slick and messy before rising onto his knees and reaching behind himself.

There's a difference, Tommy thinks, between knowing that something is about to happen and actually watching it unfold before his eyes. Jon is hesitant at first, maybe from the added scrutiny of Tommy watching him, but he unravels slowly, rocking back against one long, thin finger, and then two, soft noises falling out of his mouth almost continuously now that he knows he doesn't have to keep quiet anymore. At some point Lovett nudges at Jon to shift so Tommy can have a better view, and Tommy's mouth goes dry watching Jon clench around his own fingers, the muscles of his back working beneath the flimsy material of his sleep shirt, starting to get damp with sweat.

"You—God, that, you look good, Jon," Tommy says, hoping this is okay, that he's ... contributing.

"Ahem," Lovett says, and Tommy knows he's kidding, but it's so easy to tell him, "I watched Jon suck you off last night, you looked fucking edible. You sounded—I had to get myself off, listening to you, even though I was sure you'd turn and catch me."

Lovett swallows. "You did?"

"Yeah." Tommy watches Jon squirming on his own fingers, Lovett stroking Jon's sides. "Yeah, you guys weren't that quiet, actually."

"Wanted to get caught," Lovett says, with a hesitance in his voice that's not like him.

"Good," Tommy tells him, both of them, firmly. "I'm glad. Can you—is Jon ready? I want to see."

Jon hisses when he eases his fingers out. He looks over his shoulder at Tommy, who can't stop staring at Jon's ass, his hole shiny with lube. Tommy wants to know what Jon looks like sinking down of Lovett's dick, wants to hear what kind of noises Jon makes when he's too desperate to be self conscious. "Come on," Lovett coaxes, settling back against the headboard, dragging his sweatpants down so his dick pops out against his thigh. "Get me ready."

Jon reaches out with shaking fingers to slide them up the shaft of Lovett's dick, slick him up with more lube. Lovett sighs, and then he makes grabby hands, positions Jon in his lap. "You should take your shirt off, Jon," Tommy says. The last barrier between Tommy's eyes and the rest of Jon's body.

"You heard him," Lovett says, head lolling back against the wood. Jon yanks it off, movements jerky, and then all Tommy can see is golden skin, the shift of Jon's muscles as he squeezes his knees around Lovett's hips.

Tommy can't see Jon sinking down, not the way he wants to, but he can see both of them reacting to it—Lovett showy, even more so now he knows he has two people watching him, and Jon stiff as he adjusts, breathing into the stretch. Tommy wonders how they did this the first time, how Lovett opened him up for it. Whether Jon asked Lovett, haltingly, to show him how to take Lovett's cock. Whether Lovett said yes without even thinking, or whether he was surprised.

He wants to ask, but this moment is too quiet to interrupt. For all Lovett's throwing his head around and pointedly grabbing for purchase on the bedspread and pillows, it's still—it's a moment between them, that they're sharing with Tommy. It's the press of Lovett into Jon's body, the intimacy of the way they're looking into each other's eyes. The way they know Tommy's watching.

Without taking his eyes off them, he pushes his boxers down so he can wrap his fist around his cock in the open air.

He keeps his hand still for a minute; he's not trying to jerk himself off too quickly. He wants to savor it, this crystalline moment of seeing, Jon and Lovett letting him see. Jon is panting a little by the time he's seated all the way down, thighs twitching, and Lovett tilts his head up so they can kiss. Even in the middle of this wild thing they're doing, in the open light with Tommy three feet away, the soft press of their mouths seems tender in a way that makes Tommy's chest ache. They look good together. They're good for each other.

"You should move," Lovett murmurs against his mouth, and Jon takes a deep breath before starting to roll his hips. Jon has always been—aesthetically pleasing, Tommy can admit that to himself, and it's hard not to admire the way he twists and glistens as he fucks himself slowly on Lovett's cock. It sounds filthy, the wet noise their bodies make every time Jon levers himself up and then takes Lovett deep again. One of Lovett's hands reaches around to dig into Jon's shoulder, fingers pale against Jon's tan skin, and that contrast looks good, too. It's hard not to obsess over the details when Tommy can see them all so much better than he could last night.

"Tommy's watching you," Lovett says. It's uneven; he's having to stop and catch his breath. Tommy can't imagine talking at all with Jon riding his cock, but he can't imagine anything truly stopping Lovett from talking, either. An immovable object, an unstoppable force. "Tommy's so hard for you right now. Bet you look so fucking hot riding me like this."

"He does," Tommy tells them. "Crazy fucking hot, just—" He shakes his head, even though they aren't looking at him. "Are you gonna come in him?" There hadn't been a condom, Tommy realizes. Lovett could fill Jon up like this. Tommy has to shift, squeeze his fist tight on his dick, thinking about it. Jon, bent over after, Lovett licking his own come out of Jon's ass. Or pushing it in deeper with his fingers, maybe.

"What do you think?" Lovett says, voice winding tighter. "What do you—what do you want to see?" and it's crazy, crazy knowing that they're letting him give input, letting him watch and dictate. He's not just a passive observer, and that feels heady, makes his toes curl into the sheets beneath his feet.

"Yeah," Tommy says, breathless. "Yeah, you should come in him, make a mess," and Jon shudders, his entire body shaking as he clenches down on Lovett's dick, head tossed back to bare the long line of his throat. Lovett cranes up so he can kiss the swell of Jon's Adam's apple, the hollow of his collarbone and the sloping juncture of his neck and his shoulder. Lovett's sharp sometimes—most of the time, even—but he's soft underneath it all. Tommy swallows thickly, spits in his palm and jerks himself a couple more times, hissing when Jon picks his pace up, ass slapping against the tops of Lovett's thighs.

"Fuck," Lovett says, pulling Jon in close, and—half his face is obscured when he comes, hips hitching up erratically against Jon's downward grind, but Tommy can see enough of his expression to sear it into his memory.

"You—God, are you still taking suggestions? Please—" Tommy can't stop stroking himself, can't stop inching closer to the edge.

Lovett nods, jerkily, and Tommy says, "Can you eat him out? Like this, when he's, when you've just come in him?"

Jon makes a noise that's very close to a squeak, and Lovett swears under his breath. He's pushing Jon up and off of him, Jon's torso twisting as he plants his palms on the bed. His cock looks painfully hard under him, and just Lovett running a hand over his flank makes him shudder.

"Haven't done this with Jon yet," Lovett tells Tommy. "So you get to see something new." He kisses the low curve of Jon's ass, first, and digs his fingers into the meat of Jon's thighs. Tommy can see the way Jon's arms are shaking, trying to hold him up under this assault on his senses.

He loses that battle when Lovett licks across his hole, small pink tip of his tongue flitting at the rim; Jon's elbows buckle and his face presses briefly into the bed before he turns, red and panting, to look at Tommy. He's moaning loudly now, eyes fluttering shut when Lovett slides his tongue inside him, wriggles it around. He pushes back, spine arched, ass stuck in the air, offering himself up, and Tommy grips himself hard enough that it hurts. Jon is so open and so vulnerable and so gorgeous like this, and Lovett's spreading him wider, licking his own come out of Jon, making him feel so good.

Tommy takes a deep breath and lets it out, shaky. Lovett slides the pretty bow of his mouth against Jon's hole and sucks so hard Jon's entire body bucks, heaving against the bed. He reaches around to stroke Jon once, twice, and then Jon is striping across the sheets, jizz dripping down Lovett's knuckles. Lovett's pink when he rises back up on his knees and helps Jon ease onto his side, and then he glances over at Tommy and lifts his dirty hand to his mouth, dragging his tongue across it to clean it. Jesus Christ.

Tommy's own hand is still clasped around his erection, and it's not going to take long to get himself off, but most of the activity on the other side of the room has ceased, and he feels too exposed with his dick out for everyone to see, hard and leaking at the tip. "I can, uh," Tommy mumbles, shifting gingerly against the headboard, "I can just go into the bathroom or something—"

"No, you should show us something nice, too," Lovett commands, imperious, and Tommy flushes.

Jon topples over sideways, head pillowed on one arm, watching Tommy. Both of them are just—"I'm really better at the other way around," Tommy says, weakly, but Lovett's raising an eyebrow. Tommy moves his hand, just a little, and it feels so fucking good that it's easier to keep going.

"You like watching," Lovett says. It's not a question. "Like us putting on a show for you?" Tommy nods. His throat is tight. "Is it better if we know you're ... there, or—?"

"Um," Tommy says, not because he doesn't know the answer, but because he's on the verge of coming and his brain isn't operating at full speed. "I like—watching with you. Talking—making suggestions, that was—" Tommy stops, groaning, hand whipping as fast over his cock as his arm can go.

"Let us see you come," Lovett tells him, and Tommy shuts his eyes and strokes his cock and does, spurting over his hand, jerking himself through it until he's too sensitive to keep going.

He blinks back to the light, after. Lovett yawns and slouches, stretching his arms over his head. Jon's moving up next to him, and they look about ready to tuck in. Tommy feels awkward and embarrassed, suddenly, with come cooling on his hand and them together on the other bed. He wishes there were tissues, wipes up with the corner of the sheet, instead. "Um," he says. "I could go sleep in Lovett's room so you guys can, like—you look comfortable." He tugs his underwear back up.

"What?" Lovett says. He blinks at Tommy.

"Uh," Tommy says, and forces a laugh. "You know—you don't need a third wheel in your space." He feels weird saying it, but it would be weirder not to acknowledge how weird this all is. The word "weird" isn't making sense in Tommy's brain anymore. 

Jon goes up onto one elbow. "You're not a third wheel," he says. "You're _Tommy_ , you're—don't be ridiculous. Don't go anywhere. Lovett, don't give him the key card."

Lovett nods, and narrows his eyes at Tommy, looking like he's thinking through something. He's quiet for a long moment, then says, "We're in St. Louis next. Be silly to pay for two rooms, I'm thinking."

"Oh," Tommy says, trying to catch his breath. He feels off balance, kind of, but not in a bad way. Maybe this will just be a tour thing, or maybe they'll let him keep asking for more. Either way, he wants to figure out where this path is going to lead them. That's what Tommy's friendship with them has always been about: following each other across the country and making something new together. "Yeah," he says, and his chest feels warm when Lovett grins at him, when Jon stretches across the bed with his hand tucked underneath his chin and smiles, slow and easy. "Okay."


End file.
